


princeliness

by Quixotism



Category: Victor Frankenstein (2015)
Genre: Damaged Codependent Scientists, F/M, Gen, Igor and Lorelei are BFFs, M/M, Who is the Man and Who is the Monster?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:32:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5342528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixotism/pseuds/Quixotism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor was no one's hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	princeliness

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ came out before _Mary Shelley's Frankenstein_ or not and frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

_“Love is like a tree: it shoots of itself; it strikes its roots deeply into our whole being, and frequently continues to put forth green leaves over a heart in ruins. And there is this unaccountable circumstance attending it, that the blinder the passion the more tenacious it is. Never is it stronger than when it is most unreasonable.”_

* * *

There wasn’t much call for reading in the circus. Whatever books he could find was eroded away by unhealthy hands and careless tears. In the circus, knowledge paved way to nothing. You were only as good as your act and that is all you ever hoped to be. For Igor, expecting more was impossible for he did not know how to _expect_ anything. 

Then Victor came and whisked him away. 

“It’s like a fairy tale,” Lorelei said, a mischievous smile hiding behind burgundy wine, “The dashing young man rescues the maiden into privilege.”

Igor simply nodded (he had no idea of such stories, save the ones he concocted in his head and they were not so rich in imagination) and replied, “I doubt Victor is very _dashing_. Or believes he could be.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Lorelei, dismissing his statement, “The end result is the same.”

_But what is the end?_ Igor wanted to ask, but restrained himself with another sip. He had no intention of revealing his ignorance even when Lorelei was accepting of his background. He saved her life. But he had done little else to endear himself to her.  


He vaguely recalled an insult that was passed around those days in the circus, though he rarely paid much attention to it. Finding his thoughts turning towards the past, he questioned Victor on it.

“What is a Quasimodo?” he asked, curiously. 

Victor blinked, tugging the Lazarus fork down from the machine. 

“I haven’t the slightest clue – Oh, no, wait I do,” he frowned, mulling over the word. Igor could see the cogs turning furiously, never-ending motion to out-pace its owner, “It’s from that trite novel, _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_. I never much fancied it. All superstition and gaudy romance.”

“A hunchback?” Igor echoed, sounding a little shocked, “Like myself?”

“ _No_ ,” And Victor’s voice was harsh, “Nothing like you. Never like you.”

That was a surprise. It wasn’t like Victor to be so vehement over fiction. Still, Igor pressed onwards, “Can I read it?”

“I suppose I can fetch a copy,” Victor replied, already turning back to his experiment, the conversation slipping from his mind. It was not essential to Victor, the study of love and poetry and tragedy. He cared nothing for it, whether it came from book or story. 

“Thank you, Victor,” Igor said earnestly before he turned to go. For a second, it seemed like Victor too had turned, simply to catch the tail end of a smile, but that seemed wrong.

Victor was no one’s dashing hero.

* * *

Weeks had passed as Igor slowly grew comfortable in his own skin, when Victor promptly dropped the book on Igor’s head with a blunt “You’re welcome!” as he hurried back to his lab. Igor opened the book carefully, his fingers trailing down the spine with curiosity. This was unlike the books he was given. It was new, and it smelled _fresh_ with laundered paper and new ink. This . . . was what a book should feel like. With trembling hands, he turned the page to read the story of Quasimodo . . . 

When he was finished, he tucked the book away and dreamed of faraway gypsies on trapezes and a man like himself.

* * *

_“His judgement demonstrates that one can be a genius and understand nothing of an art that is not one's own,”_ Igor murmured as he watched Victor move around the room madly, to tweak knobs and wires. 

“What was that?” Victor called out, exuberant. 

“Nothing!” Igor replied in return, but Victor wouldn’t have it. He climbed down his scaffolding, to look Igor straight in the eyes. It was unnerving, much like being stared at by the sun. You simply could not look away from Victor, no matter how strange or unnerving you found it. Your gaze always traveled with him. 

_Both a blessing and a curse,_ Igor thought to himself. 

Victor looked at him for a long time, “Is this about that bloody book I bought you?”

“Well, it is a little –,” Igor paused, and then said, “. . . bought for me?”

Victor had enough grace in him to be somewhat . . . shy at that revelation, “Well, where else did you expect me to find it? It was no small trouble fetching it, I hope you know.”

Igor did know, a little. How difficult it was for Victor to go into a public area, to be seen, to be displayed only by his eccentricities and not his genius, to struggle talking to others who do not share his vision, to not _know_ when he is failing, but to know he _is_ , always is failing with people.

So Igor simply smiled, to the best he can (he had learned the art in the circus) and replied, “I know.” 

In the evening, he found himself on the streets with Lorelei, his hands tucked into his pockets as he trailed beside her. She was talking about some scandal that had exploded in the ballroom the day before, spiralling into lurid details that Igor simply ignored. Snow was falling lightly onto London, a light dusting for the storm to come. 

“And so I said – Igor, are you listening?” Lorelei snapped her attention at him, her lips pursed in annoyance. 

Igor blinked before nodding, “My apologies, Lorelei. I was simply thinking . . .,”

“About?”

He was quiet, as the snow flaked onto his clothes like a passing drizzle. Lorelei watched him silently, “About Victor.”

“And what is your prognosis, Doctor?” she said, teasing. 

Igor chuckled, brushing some of the snow off himself, “That Victor is no Prince.”

Lorelei laughed, jostling him, “I could have told you that!”

_No_ , he thought with bemusement as he let her loop her arm around his own, _You could not have._

Victor was no prince, but he was deeply and tragically Igor’s.


End file.
